


golden boy's in bad shape

by redpaint



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 2010 Formula 1 Season, Alternate Universe - Not Famous, Bartenders, M/M, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28747956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: Daniel swallows and nods. Is he really standing here chatting with Jenson Button (star of Daniel’s childhood karting magazines) about Mark Webber (star of Daniel’s childhood bedroom wall)? He glances over to the table with Jenson’s entourage. “Don’t you, like, have someone to order your drinks for you?”“And miss out on chatting up cute bartenders? Not a chance.” Jenson smiles.(Daniel is a bartender and aspiring musician. Jenson is the winner of the 2010 Australian Grand Prix.)
Relationships: Jenson Button/Daniel Ricciardo
Comments: 20
Kudos: 67
Collections: F1 Soup Kitchen Prompts For The Soul





	golden boy's in bad shape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ambiguouspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguouspace/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [ambiguouspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambiguouspace/pseuds/ambiguouspace) in the [F1SoupKitchenPromptMeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/F1SoupKitchenPromptMeme) collection. 



> for ambiguouspace, because this prompt grabbed me by my lapels and shook me to my core lmao. hope you enjoy!

Fuck. _Fuck._ Fuckfuckfuck. Daniel’s going to be late for work. He tears off his (stupid, traitorous, alarm-muffling) headphones, throws them onto his mattress, and books it out the door without even the usual “Bye cunts!” to tell his roommates he’s leaving. He flies down the stairs, hopping the railing on the corners. It isn’t until he reaches the ground floor that he realizes he’s left his keys in the apartment.

He takes the stairs back up two at a time, cursing with every step. That new song was almost there, it just needed a little something, and he’d spent twenty more minutes than he’d meant to noodling around to find out what that _something_ was. He grabs the keys off the hook and sprints back down the stairs, but by the time he dashes out onto the sidewalk the bus has already pulled away from the stop. It trundles down the street at a cool 20 kph, mocking him for somehow being the slower one of the two of them.

Daniel sighs and pops a squat on the kerb. He has a photo of the bus schedule saved on his phone for occasions like these, and it tells him he’ll have to wait another twelve minutes for the next one. Whatever, long enough for a dart. Cyril (proprietor of the creatively-named Cyril’s Pub) is a bit of a prickly bastard but deep-down he almost definitely has a soft spot for Daniel. The worst he’ll get is a telling-off, if Cyril’s even in today. It’s a nice evening, a bit of Melbourne sun and the wind off the water. Daniel takes the extra time to record a few lyrics ideas on his phone, singing over the sounds of traffic.

He enters through the back of the bar, as inconspicuous as he can be while panting from the two-block jog from the final stop. The bored kid who works the deep-fryers barely looks up from his phone. Cyril is nowhere to be seen — small blessings — but Aurelie spots him through the kitchen doors and gives him a sharp look. There are definitely pit stains on his Thrasher t-shirt, but at least he sprays down with the can of Lynx he keeps in his locker for emergencies. Breathe in. Breathe out. Mother’s milk.

Aurelie is already clocking out by the time he joins her behind the bar. “Jesus Christ, there you are. You’re lucky I had a few minutes after my shift.”

“Sorry, missed a bus and then traffic was shit. Will you ever forgive me?” He grins at her, big and cheesy, batting his eyelashes like a Disney princess.

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling too. “Yeah, yeah, you know you’ll get away with everything. You’re lucky it’s a pretty civilized crowd tonight.”

“No one ever wants to tear it up on a Monday. It’s like they’re afraid to keep the weekend going.”

Aurelie finishes signing out and tucks her apron under the counter. “You’re a regular Shakespeare. Don’t have too much fun without me, and remember, you owe me one.”

Daniel bows with a dramatic flourish as she walks away. “Forever in your debt, m’lady.”

Aurelie makes a face at him over her shoulder. “You reek!” Then she’s gone and Daniel’s alone behind the bar for the night.

He clocks in, only half-paying attention while he scans the crowd. Aurelie was right, it’s a pretty subdued bunch. One table of middle-aged women gathered for what looks like a birthday party. A few couples. Two old-timers sitting at the bar with their eyes glued on the TVs. Cyril’s is never too crazy — just another divey pub with a cable sports subscription — but there’s a small contingent of uni students who seem to find the wood paneling and the faux taxidermied marlin above the bar just kitschy enough to make the bar worth patronizing, albeit ironically. At least they’re usually good fun.

The bar’s Pandora mix skips to the next song. Born To Be Wild. Daniel can’t stop himself bobbing his head along to the beat, miming a few nasty bass riffs for good measure. That gets a smile out of one of the guys seated on the bar. Score: Daniel Ricciardo, 1. Boring old farts, 0.

One of the women from the birthday party comes up to the bar, clutching what must be eight empty glasses between her hands. Impressive _and_ scary. Daniel likes her style, and not just because he gets to be lazy about bussing empties.

“Another round of mojitos, please.” She lines the glasses up on the mat. “Where’s that girl who was here earlier? She’s a laugh and a half.”

“End of shift. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of ‘ya.” He punctuates with a wink, already reaching for the buckets of limes and mint this order going to take.

“I’m holding you to that—”

“Daniel.”

“ _Daniel._ ”

“Enchanté.”

Now, most nights Daniel would rather eat nails than make _eight mojitos,_ but tonight’s looking slow enough that he’ll let it slide. Besides, there’s something satisfying about doing the same steps all the way down the row of glasses, building them step by step — a bit of sour, a bit of sweet, a generous pour of strong. It’s a bit like the satisfaction of writing a song and getting all the parts working together nicely. He flips the muddling rod up into the air and catches it with a flourish before getting down and dirty with the mint and sugar.

“Thank you daaaaarling,” the birthday girl coos as he sets down the party’s drinks. He wonders how long they’ve been there, a definite pinkness touching each of their cheeks.

“Much obliged,” he replies, in his best Texas drawl.

After that it’s all pints and well drinks. It’s boring work, but it pays the bills. Daniel munches on his shift snack — chips fried extra-dark — and checks his phone under the counter every few minutes. No new texts, but that figures. Nothing exciting has ever happened on a Monday night. The party and one of the couples clear out, and the bar becomes noticeably quieter. The only thrill of the night comes from Cyril popping out of his office and tossing Daniel the keys to lock up with later.

“Looks like you have a handle on it. And tell Esteban he can close the kitchen early. Don’t burn the place down.”

Daniel salutes, keys in hand. “Alrighty, boss. I’ll take real good care of her.”

Cyril doesn’t look particularly impressed, but he goes anyway. It’s only the second time he’s left Daniel to close on his own, but it’s not too hard, especially since Cyril can’t tell him off for starting on the closing checklist while the night owls finish their final drinks. Still, Daniel can’t start cleaning up quite yet — there’s still an hour to closing time, after all.

Still no one new, and no one looking close to empty, so Daniel ducks down to check on the state of the kegs. He’s opening tomorrow, and he might as well make life easier for himself while he has the time. Of course that’s when he hears the door swing open and the sound of animated chatter. British, from the sound of it. At least some of them. Absently, Daniel wonders if they’re in town for the GP. Daniel had to watch the race from his shared living room, but plenty of other people were more lucky. The city was crawling with tourists all weekend. Either way, the kegs are fine. He straightens up, pops his back, and _oh._

There’s a group of four guys congregated around one of the high-top tables in the middle of the bar. One of them is wearing a white and red McLaren tee. One of them is wearing sunglasses inside. And one of them is _Jenson fucking Button._

Daniel’s stomach just about falls out of his ass. Actually, scratch that, it falls and it keeps falling and ends up somewhere in the Earth’s mantle or something, because no fucking way is the F1 world champ in _his_ bar on _his_ shitty Monday shift. They’re not even that close to the track. Daniel blinks hard to make sure popping his back didn’t snap his brainstem or something else that would make him hallucinate. Nope, still there. And, more terrifying, Jenson has finished up saying something to his mates and is _walking over to the bar._

Fuck, be cool Ricciardo, be fucking cool. “I know you,” Daniel says. Perfect. So cool.

Jenson doesn’t seem put off by it. He leans one hip against the counter. “Do you, now? And your name is?” He looks good, but Daniel figures that’s what winning a Grand Prix does for you.

“Daniel. Shouldn’t you be at, like, a nightclub or something?” Daniel mentally kicks himself. Great job, really selling the brand. Oh well, it’s not like Cyril’s has magnums of champagne on offer. Not much upselling possible, even if your customer is a multimillionaire.

Jenson shrugs, and his shirt pulls a little across his chest. He has left at least three buttons unbuttoned, and he’s definitely picked up a bit of a tan despite all the hours in the racesuit. “Nice to meet you, Daniel. I should have you know that Super Mondays are for relaxing. Besides, I promised the team I’d be good.”

“Hard to be better than you were yesterday, mate. That call for slicks —”

“Oh, so you’re a fan?”

Daniel demurs. “Well, I mean, I’ve got to back the hometown boy but —”

“Ah, come on, Mark’s no fun. But it’s okay, you don’t have to admit like me better.” Jenson leans in a little, conspiratorial. “We can keep that between us.”

Daniel swallows and nods. Is he really standing here chatting with Jenson Button (star of Daniel’s childhood karting magazines) about Mark Webber (star of Daniel’s childhood bedroom wall)? He glances over to the table with Jenson’s entourage. “Don’t you, like, have someone to order your drinks for you?”

“And miss out on chatting up cute bartenders? Not a chance.” Jenson smiles. He’s got big, wolfy teeth, which Daniel has never had the chance to notice before. Daniel’s heart leaps into his throat and he really, really needs to stop staring at Jenson’s teeth and take his fucking order.

Daniel clears his throat. Focus. Professionalism. He’s done this a million times. “So, what can I get you?”

“Four lagers, four shots of whiskey — whatever’s local.”

“The local stuff’s pretty shit.”

“Whatever’s good then. You wouldn’t steer me wrong.”

“You got it.” Daniel stands on his toes to grab a bottle from the very top shelf — Cyril should thank him later — and pulls the pints. He can feel Jenson watching him work. Daniel runs his tongue along the tracks of his braces, a nervous habit he promised to give up in the new year. When he sets down the last glass, he sees Jenson looking at him with a certain amount of amusement, like a pleased cat. Daniel half wants to check and make sure he doesn’t have something spilled down his shirt. “So do you, uh, want a tab, or —”

Jenson fishes around in his pockets for his wallet, then slides a very solid looking credit card across the counter. “Last name’s Button,” he says, smug bastard, before turning back to his friends at the table. “Alright lazyarses, you really going to make me carry all these on my own?”

The guys, duly shamed, collect their drinks from the bar. They’re a pretty normal-looking bunch — they would be totally unremarkable if Daniel hadn’t recognized Jenson. Jenson, however, stands out with a little extra shine. Maybe it’s just the residual tween hero-worship talking, but Daniel could swear Jenson is the ringleader of the group, directing the conversation and making the others laugh just a little bit louder. His voice carries across the bar, and it’s honestly a little surreal, a voice Daniel has only ever heard on television or clips from F1 websites.

He couldn’t have been serious about that _cute bartender_ business. F1 is as straight as straight can be, and besides, Jenson’s always struck him as a bit of a joker. If he’s willing to wind up title rivals after a bit of champagne, maybe a little harmless flirting is to be expected by the end of a celebratory evening.

Daniel tries not to be too obvious about staring, but there are only so many times he can wipe down the counter and pretend to check the level of everyone’s drinks. The last remaining couple finally puts him out of his misery by settling up at the bar and paying in exact cash. Daniel pops the coins in the till one at a time so he can focus more on eavesdropping. Nothing interesting, really, just idle chat about someone they all seem to know, but Daniel can’t pick out Jenson’s voice from the group. When he looks up, he realizes why.

Jenson has the seat angled towards the bar and he’s _staring,_ no doubt about it. Chin on one hand, removed from the conversation. Daniel expects him to look away when he makes eye contact but no, Jenson picks up his shot of whiskey, tips it towards Daniel in salute, and drinks. He’s got a nice neck. Daniel likes how it works as Jenson swallows. And Jenson, well, he doesn’t stop staring.

Now Daniel prides himself on being a hard guy to fluster. If anything, he is the flusterer, the one who flusters. Still, he short-circuits a little, half-picking up a glass and then putting it back down, then turning to face the wall of liquor behind the bar to just give himself a minute to get himself together. He _blushing._ He doesn’t blush. And maybe he feels a little warm and tingly but at least there’s a bar and a pair of baggy basketball shorts between Jenson and any possible indecency on Daniel’s end.

He’d never really thought much about Jenson beyond racing — well, maybe once or twice, but that was a long time ago. Except there was also the night last October when Jenson clinched the championship, but _that_ was just a gesture of respect for a season well-driven, the kind of good-job wank that all red-blooded sports-loving men know well.

Look. Daniel is only human. He’s a young guy who never gets laid because his roommates are always around and because girls don’t like his braces and because he’s always working nights. And Jenson is — he’s hot, okay, and Daniel’s never felt the need to put a label on how he feels about this kind of stuff but he’d have to be blind to not be into the tall, cheeky, stubbly look Jenson has going on. He probably has girls falling all over him from the moment he gets out of bed in the morning, and he’s _smirking at Daniel across the bar._

Okay, so Daniel should make a gameplan if he’s trying to get more than some suggestive looks out of this. He makes a point of looking busy clicking around aimlessly on the POS terminal. _Do you have a hotel room?_ is a bit forward, and so is _I have a shitty flat halfway across the city, I could show you a lovely view of the parking garage next door._ How do F1 Drivers feel about fucking in the bathroom? That’s a classic, isn’t it?

He’s been dicking around and facing the wrong way for an irresponsible amount of time. He turns around and Jenson is standing at the counter.

Daniel only panics for a second before remembering that Jenson has no idea he’s been imagining them defiling the gent’s together. “Another round?”

“Yeah, just me though.”

Daniel takes a peek over Jenson’s shoulder. The other guys are stood up, pushing in their chairs. “Nothing for your mates?”

“Nah, they’re knackered. Race weekends just take so much out of them,” Jenson takes a seat at one of the barstools, which puts them at eye-level.

“Brave soldiers,” Daniel says solemnly.

One of Jenson’s entourage, the guy in the McLaren shirt, swings by the counter on his way out. “Flight’s early Jense, you sure you don’t want the last spot in the car?”

Jenson waves him off. “Don’t worry, I’ll catch up with you lot in the morning.” His friend relents, following the others out the door. Now it’s just the two of them, plus the stuffed marlin and the pensioner sipping his flat ale — a cozy crowd. Daniel sees the old man scraping bottom the peanut bowl and goes to give it a refill. “Just a heads up that we close in twenty,” he says, apologetic. The guy just grunts and waves him off. Sticking it out to the last, then.

Jenson’s looking at him again, a light, amused look that’s too friendly for total strangers. “So what’s the barkeep’s special?” he asks.

Daniel does not, strictly speaking, have a special. He has a few custom concoctions that he calls “good” and his friends call “kerosene but with added sugar” but they just don’t seem right to inflict on a man whose dick he is now apparently trying to suck. There’s something else though, and he can’t quite fight the smile when it comes to mind. “Well, there’s this one drink, but I’m not sure you could really handle it.”

Jenson doesn’t look impressed. _“Handle it.”_

“It takes a discerning palette.”

“Like yours?”

Daniel puts up his hands defensively. “Well, I’d never brag.”

“Of course not.”

“But if you think you’re up for it—”

“Bring it on.”

Daniel ducks down to the lower shelves, where they keep the fancy liqueurs no one ever asks for. He surfaces with two bottles and places them on the back of the bar, then grabs a single rocks glass from the rack.

Jenson cranes his neck over Daniel’s shoulder. “Not going to let me see what I’m drinking?”

“The surprise makes it better,” Daniel says, and turns away.

The Campari and Fernet assault the nostrils with their own distinct brands of bitter astringency. Daniel shakes them over ice and takes in the scent of citrus and mint, the unholy marriage only made possible by the great people of Italy. The final drink is a murky red-brown, like an old bloodstain. Jenson eyes it suspiciously when Daniel sets it down in front of him.

“Do you know what kind of trouble you’ll get into if you try and kill me?”

“Didn’t peg you as a pussy, but hey—”

Oh, Daniel’s pushing his luck now, but it feels good, better than puttering around awkwardly. Jenson snorts and takes a long sip. His smirk quickly twists into disgust. “Christ, what _is_ this?”

Daniel puts both hands on the counter and leans in. “‘S called a Ferrari.”

Jenson coughs, reaching for a bar napkin. “You _bastard._ It’s vile.”

Daniel’s smiling ear-to-ear now. God, he hopes he doesn’t kill the reigning F1 World Champion. “Not my fault you can’t handle the special. Here, I’ll get you something better.”

Jenson stops him with a hand on Daniel’s forearm. His fingers are cool from the chill of the glass. “No, don’t, it’s alright. I’m sure it will grow on me.” He grimaces. Daniel just about grabs the drink out from under Jenson’s nose, just to save him from himself, but hey — who is he to stop a man from enjoying some fine amaros? They’re only about three or four years old, knowing the ordering habits of Cyril’s patrons.

The man at the end of the bar finally vacates his stool, digging around in his wallet for cash. He drops a few bills on the counter. “Here, this should cover me. Goodnight.”

Daniel waves. “Night, thanks for coming.” He gathers up the bills. A quick check on the terminal tells him the old bastard’s actually shorted him two dollars. The vagaries of Lady Luck never fail to amaze.

When he turns back to Jenson, he notices the glass is just as full as he’d left it. He doesn’t mention it, leaning back on the counter with his forearms, as casual as casual can be.

“So you’re not going to warn me about closing time?” Jenson asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“I’m not exactly going to throw you out, am I?”

“Nowhere to be after this?”

It’s bold enough to catch Daniel a little off-guard. “Er, just my bed, I guess.”

“Someone waiting for you?” Jenson says it so casual, like he does this all the time. Does he do this all the time? Well it fucking works if so.

Daniel props his chin up on one hand. “Just my guitar. I call her Lola.”

“She sounds like a stunner.”

“Oh yeah, gorgeous, all those curves.”

Jenson finally lifts his glass to take another tiny, tiny sip. “Hm, I should be jealous.”

Alright, time to stick the landing. “I, uh, don’t think she would mind.”

“Mind what?”

Daniel is shitting bricks but he smiles through. “If you want to stick around after I lock up.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

Seriously? Playing innocent after all that?

“I’ll show you something real cool.”

“And what’s that?”

Fuck, he should have had a shot of the Branca himself. Or maybe just grain alcohol. But fuck it, no going back now. He opens his mouth like he’s receiving communion and sticks out his tongue just a bit, so Jenson can see the pearly silver end of his tongue stud.

Jenson’s eyes flick from the piercing to Daniel’s eyes and back again. “I see. And what about locking up early?”

It’s only when Daniel’s locking the front door that he spots the key to Cyril’s office on the keychain. He only feels bad about it for half a second. They leave the half-full Ferrari on the counter.

Cyril’s office is a glorified broom cupboard but at least it has a nice chair, the leather kind that leans back. Daniel looks up. Jenson is still stupidly handsome from this angle, long legs parted wide to cradle Daniel between them, bottom lip shining (Daniel’s work), the hem of his shirt rucked up and revealing a bit of warm golden hair that disappears under his waistband. It’s all a little unfair.

“This is fucking crazy,” Daniel says, more to himself than to Jenson. He’s already reaching for the fly of Jenson’s jeans.

“This was your idea,” Jenson counters, shifting to let Daniel get his clothes down around his knees.

“Right.” He sounds a bit stupid but that’s because he’s got an eyefull of Jenson’s cock — it’s enough to take anyone down a few IQ points. It’s been a while since Daniel’s done anything like this, but he won’t let the nerves show. He’s always figured that having a dick of his own gives him, like, automatic expert blowie knowledge anyway.

Maybe if they had more time — or a proper bed — he’d get all fancy with teasing and technique, try and top the surely extensive list of groupies Jenson’s had in his day. But they don’t, and so Daniel just goes straight for what he _knows_ feels good — fitting a slick fist around the base of Jenson’s cock and covering the rest with his mouth, rubbing up under the head with his stud.

Jenson grips the armrests of the chair. Here’s hoping Cyril doesn’t notice any nail marks in the leather. “Fuck, you’re keen.”

Daniel pulls off Jenson’s cock and looks up. His pulse is pounding in his ears, his cheeks are burning, and he has to swallow hard just to clear his throat. “Sorry?”

“Don’t go shy on me now. It’s cute, seeing how much you like it.” Jenson is, quite literally, talking down to him from his perch in the chair. Daniel can’t stop himself whining.

He lets his mouth fall open again, lets Jenson rub the head of his cock across Daniel’s lower lip and over the length of his tongue. Jenson is so responsive, groaning and sighing and swearing under his breath. The other guys that Daniel has been with have all been too proud to make any noise. He wants Jenson to make those sounds again, _louder._ It’s the first time he’s fucked in an empty building since he left Perth and he wants to be _rewarded_ for his cocksucking, thank you very much.

He gets his lips around Jenson properly again, hoping maybe that will stop him thinking so much. When he’s focused on timing the dance between breathing and sucking he shouldn’t have the spare capacity to think about how he will or won’t brag about this to his friends in the future. Jenson’s palm cradles the side of Daniel’s jaw, and his thumb slips along the edge of Daniel’s lips, over Daniel’s teeth, into Daniel’s mouth alongside his own dick.

“The braces are cute too.” He tilts his head back against the chair. “God, this is the best way to end a weekend.”

Daniels hums and runs his hands up Jenson’s thighs, over the lean muscle and wiry hair. He repeats the fact back to himself one more time: he is blowing Jenson Button in his boss’s office. Maybe if he could dig his fingers into the meat of Jenson’s thigh then this wouldn’t feel so fucking unreal, but that’s probably bad manners. Instead, Daniel reaches up and strokes Jenson’s balls in time with the movement of his mouth, losing himself a little in the rhythm.

Just as Daniel feels himself getting in the zone, Jenson’s hips jump up, and for a second Daniel can’t breathe. His ensuing cough not enough to drown out how Jenson breathes, “Oh, baby,” and the whole suite of sensations is so stupid intense that it makes Daniel want to melt into the scuffed, dirty floor. Jenson squeezes Daniel’s shoulder, realizing what he’s done. “Sorry, fuck, didn’t mean to— You alright?”

Daniel shakes his head. “No, no, it’s okay, you can —” 

“Can I —?”

“Yes, yeah, go on.” He’s pushing at his own limits but if there was ever a time to do it it’s now.

Jenson cradles the back of Daniel’s head in one hand, looking down at him with an expression that would be sweet or romantic if they were anywhere else. “ _Fuck,_ you’re something else.”

Daniel has to close his eyes when Jenson fucks into his mouth, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to watch and etch every second of this insane experience into whatever bit of the brain does the memories so he can wank to it for like, forever.

When he stops to catch his breath, Jenson pulls on Daniel’s curls a little harder. “Look so fucking hot like this, lapping it up, you love the attention, don’t you?”

Daniel nods — he feels like he would say yes to just about anything right now. He can’t imagine the sight he makes, frantic and _easy_ , spit on his chin, stars in his eyes whenever he looks up. Jenson is seeing right through him, has probably seen through him right from the start, amusing himself watching Daniel twist himself into knots trying to fuck him. He tilts his head back into Jenson’s touch. “Yeah, _yeah,_ I fuckin’ like it. Would you — I want you to come in my mouth.”

Jenson laughs, properly _laughs,_ at that. He’s beautiful and flushed and smiling and yeah, there’s no way in hell Daniel will ever forget this. “So sweet. Go on then.”

Daniel doesn’t need to be told twice. He focuses on setting a pace that’s both quick and sustainable. His jaw aches a little from lack of practice, bits of grit on the floor bite into his knees, and his lips are surely rubbed red from the friction but he’s got Jenson gasping like there’s not enough air in the room and he’ll be damned if he quits now. The little office space is swimming with the obscene, wet sound of it.

Jenson’s going tense all over, straining against the chair. Daniel can taste Jenson’s pre, can feel him getting somehow even harder on Daniel’s tongue. A ribbon of pride goes through him — _I’m the one doing this to him, me, all me, come on, just a little bit more_ — but he can be embarrassed about that later. Right now Jenson’s threading his other hand into Daniel’s hair as well, keeping Daniel close as he fucks into his mouth once, then twice, biting out a curse and shaking as he comes.

“Oh my god,” Jenson says, winded. He gently pushes Daniel back, then slumps even lower in the chair, boneless.

The taste is stronger than Daniel remembers. He tries not to let it show though, opening his mouth like he’s seen girls do in porn, letting the come drip around his piercing before he finally reaches up and grabs a tissue from the desk to spit into. Jenson seems rightly dazed, watching Daniel through heavily lidded eyes. “You’re— That was— Uh, thanks.”

Daniel thinks about tossing the tissue into Cyril’s rubbish bin, but he thinks better of it and stuffs it into his pocket instead. He needs to wash these shorts anyway. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Of course. You know, happy to do it.”

Post-nut clarity descends a little too quickly for Daniel’s liking, especially since he hasn’t even come yet, his own dick totally ignored for this little starfucking quest. There’s nothing to really talk about, is there? Not once you’ve fucked in the dirty back room of a worn-out bar and it’s clear to you both that that’s where you’re going to leave it.

Daniel props himself up on the desk while Jenson zips up. He’s never going to be able to come in here again. Sorry Cyril. Despite having just had Jenson’s cock in his mouth, it feels almost inappropriate to even talk to him now. Daniel finds himself avoiding eye contacts, instead glancing over the posters, paper, and accumulated knick-knacks in the office.

“Hey,” Jenson says, once he’s put himself back together.

Daniel opens his eyes in innocence. “Yeah?”

“Come over here.”

Daniel steps closer. Jenson hooks his index finger in the neck of Daniel’s shirt and pulls him down for a kiss. It’s surprisingly sweet, just a brush of tongue that makes Daniel shiver. Jenson still tastes faintly like mint and orange. With his eyes closed, Daniel has to fight the urge to do something stupid like burying his face in Jenson’s neck. It might be nice but — 

They should really both go home.

Daniel forces himself to stand up and open his eyes. He clears his throat. “Well, give us a shout next time you’re in town.”

Jenson pretends to think. “Say, this time next year?”

“You know where to find me.”

Daniel sees Jenson out of the front door before he locks up properly. It’s late, but his trusty bus schedule tells him that the next one should be arriving soon. Another bit of luck he’ll take. He leans up against the bus stop post, trying to shake off the lingering static that seems to crawl under his skin. He should at least wait until he’s back in the safety of his own room to let himself start reliving what just happened. He wouldn’t want to wear out the memory too soon.

Idly, he wonders who he could tell about this. Maybe his roommates, if they’re all a little drunk. Maybe someone he might date in the future — maybe they’ll think it’s hot. There was one girl back in Perth who liked F1 even more than he did. They fooled around a few times, but mostly they were just good friends. Daniel flicks open his phone and finds her contact, considering. Then he shuts off his phone completely and slips it back into his pocket. A riff for a new song is needling the back of his brain and he can see the bus headlights coming up around the bend.

**Author's Note:**

> maybe this marks the end of Jenson Thirst Winter 2020-2021. _maybe._
> 
> [here, have some pictures of 2010 jenson](https://redpaint.tumblr.com/post/639883801971015680/he-made-multiple-points-here)


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